Little piece of me you can't haveAnd I know that it's driving you madThere's a part inside you can't reachI'm afraid that's the way it's gonna beThere's a part of you that wants to fightBut I never really had the appetiteI fear my feelings won't speakWords will be taken upon the breezeThe wind is always blowing

"Alright Shaggy - you and Scooby head over that way. The girls and I will go this way."

Ah, for just one timeI would take the Northwest PassageTo find the hand of Franklin reaching for the Beaufort SeaTracing one warm lineThrough our land so wild and savageTo make a Northwest Passage to the sea ...

Wolfpack wrote:I started a jokeWhich started the whole world cryingBut I didn't see that the joke was on me

RIP Robin Gibb

Naw, Rob. I was never a big Bee Gees fan ( screw disco), but you did more than alrightand the joke was not on you.

You wrote some good stuff before disco came along like Don King in Mike Tyson's life and ripped everything up.Hey! The Bee Gees had a whole other life before disco transmorgraphied them into something to be shunned.Disco.Music in the waiting room in Hell and all other fine establishments where misery is gladly dispensed ( churches, for example).

There is a rose in Spanish HarlemA red rose up in Spanish HarlemIt is a special one, it's never seen the sunIt only comes out when the moon is on the runAnd all the stars are gleamingIt's growing in the street, right up through the concreteBut soft and sweet and dreaming

Wolfie I've seen that comparison elsewhere, and its a funny jab at the apparent state of lyrics in today music industry. But seriously, comparing the refrain from Beiber's stupid pop song to Spanish Harlem is hardly fair. Pop music can't be compared like that, from this generations or any others.

Here's a few examples of the refrain from a few classic pop songs from the 60s:

You were sorta punk rock, I grew up on hip hopBut you fit me better than my favorite sweater and I knowThat love is mean, and love hurtsBut I still remember that day we met in December, oh baby

I will love you 'til the end of timeI would wait a million yearsPromise you'll remember that you're mineBaby, can you see through the tearsLove you moreThan those bitches beforeSay you'll remember, oh baby, say you'll rememberI will love you 'til the end of time

"Hunting? No, I think it's a perfectly beastly sport!" quipped Frobisher as they leaned on theMantlepiece over the crisp autumn fire.Featherstonehaugh felt his calves warming pleasantly as the brandy seeped below his waist:Knotting slightly over the abdomen, suddenly passing back up through the spine,Causing a small trickle of the otherwise pleasing brown fluid to shoot from the fontanel on top of his headWhich landed on top of the other guy's head(I've forgotten his name now... aw, anyway, he got covered in it)."Aw, what's this?""Some kind of fluid," said Featherstonehaugh."Fluid?Oh, that's the tops!"

"No, they use them for clothes pegs, you know!"Continued Featherstonehaugh, somewhat more droll."Really?" said Butterworth, who was feeling rather left out of the conversation."Oh yes, that's right, you know,They pick them up in Siberia and bring them over.""Siberia!" interjected the fellow whose name I still can't remember."Topping place! Went there once. Found a little moustache.One of the Russkies had it. Wah ha ha!Took it home, don't you know. Showed the little lady. Hrrmph.She put it on.Left me for another woman.Hmmm.Rum things, lefts.And women."He was left alone:there was no one there, not even a woman,Just the fireplace and his ever swelling chins.As the brandy began taking lethal effect, Featherstonehaugh (or was it Butterworth?Or was it the other guy whose name I can't remember?) found himself slowly turning intoSome kind of helpless, diseased houseplant.As he watched his future and his past gradually become interchangeable like a highway surrounding a drunken manThat begins to spin, he looked up above him.Even the angels were asleep.It was one of those nights.Ahhh.October.